“You slept at a truck stop?” Mr. Stockton asked.

“Yes,” Marisa said.

“What time did you arrive home?” I pressed.

“About six.”

“When the ball dropped, you were sleeping in a truck stop?” I pushed.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Marisa challenged.

“Answer the question,” her father ordered.

“Yes! I’d had a few drinks,” Marisa said.

“How many is a few?” I asked.

“Too many,” she said.

She might have been drinking, but she was still holding back. A lie by omission was still a lie.

Her father, to his credit, stepped between Marisa and me. “I don’t like the tone you’re taking with my daughter.”

“I don’t enjoy asking the hard questions,” I said. “But I’m building a timeline here so I can figure out what happened to Clare.”

“I’m calling my attorney,” Mr. Stockton said. “If you have any more questions, go through him.”

“Why’re you asking me all the questions?” Marisa asked.

I studied her face for a long beat. “I’ll be asking everyone lots more.”

“But you didn’t press Brit about being sick,” she said.

“What kind of trouble are you trying to stir up, Marisa?” Brit asked.

Marisa’s chin jutted, and her jaw pulsed as she gritted her teeth. Her eyes welled with tears. “I’m not. I just don’t see why he’s asking us these questions.”

“I’ll talk to everyone.” Maybe it wasn’t fair to push for answers now, but I was willing to take advantage of their shock. Harder to lie well when you’re rattled.

“But you started with me.”

Trouble had a stench and Marisa reeked of it. When I’d been in this house four years ago, she and Clare had been only twelve. I’d not spoken to them directly, leaving the questions to the female officer. Unfortunately, I had only vague memories of two girls standing in the backyard. They’d been facing away from the house. One was standing still, and the other was throwing rocks at the back fence.

I was a gambler. I was willing to bet I could fire off one or two more questions before the father shut me down. “You sure you were just sleeping off booze? Maybe you were out with a boy?”

“She’s sixteen,” Mr. Stockton said.

And fully capable of having sex. But arguing that wasn’t a hill I wanted to die on right now. I would circle back around and charge from a different direction later. “Did your sister have anyone who didn’t like her? Anyone that might want to hurt her?”

“No,” Marisa said.

Brit folded her arms over her chest. “I actually heard Marisa come in around six, if that helps.”

“You know for a fact you heard your sister then?” I asked.

“Yes,” Brit replied. “She was still a little drunk.”

Marisa glanced at her sister, and hints of surprise sparked behind veiled eyes.